


Once We Were Real

by Mad_Mage



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), game of thrones
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:01:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26342293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Mage/pseuds/Mad_Mage
Summary: She couldn’t recall the precise moment it had happened. There were no hows or whys, not really, there had been just the tiniest spark in the dark coldness of her heart, a single burst of warmth… perhaps at their very first touch, or perhaps at the second, or third… It hardly mattered. That spark grew, becoming larger and brighter and stronger… and now it was ready to explode in the dark, lighting the whole of her world.---A modern AU story in which two broken people deal with pain and loss, and try to climb the rocky path of healing to something resembling happiness.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Sansa Stark, Roose Bolton/Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Sansa Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	Once We Were Real

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing’s mine, I’m just a poor mad mage.  
> \---  
> This one has a rough beginning and I’m putting them through hell… And maybe because of that, it’s one of my better works. Tread carefully and enter at your own risk… but I can promise a very satisfying ending :)

** Cold **

It was long after dark. A lonely figure stood at the edge of the pier, gazing into the swirling mass of dark blue bellow. The storm had passed but the water was still raging, wild and angry and untamable like the emotions coursing through her.

No human voices could reach her there. The roaring of water was a welcomed relief from the stillness of her own mind, where those heavy thoughts kept pulling her into darkness. Her thoughts were inescapable. They were just always there going round in circles, but Sansa believed that she had found a way out. It was right in front of her – down there. She would see him again, she could apologize. She wouldn’t have to deal with that – with _any_ of that.

Sansa hadn’t been able to stand the suffocating caring of her family, the fretting, the looks they had exchanged when they had thought she hadn’t been paying attention, how they had always fallen silent when she had entered the room. She couldn’t imagine staying close to their _normal_ , so she had to take Jon’s keys and run.

Now she was alone, then, left to freeze with ice covering her heart. There was nobody to tell her what she should do, nobody to tell her what she shouldn’t do. Nobody would try to convince it’s alright because it never would be. The loneliness, if she was honest, was as suffocating as her family’s pestering had been.

She had no idea what she was supposed to do, how to move on. Shivering in the cold autumn air, Sansa took a small step closer to the edge. Just one more and it would be all over. No more pretending to be fine. No more guilt.

Sansa was like a jug they had forgotten to fire properly and now it couldn’t hold all the water that had been poured into it. She had been stronger than this, once. She had had so much in her life to look forward to. It was all gone now. He was gone and it was her fault and she was here and Sansa simply hadn’t the slightest idea how to go forward now without breaking down every minute of every bloody day. There was no way forward, was there? Except one.

One step and it would all be well again. No more nightmares, no more…

“Evening.”

The voice startled her and Sansa whirled, dangerously teetering at the edge for a second before she found her footing. Her heart started to hammer painfully in her chest as she gazed at the dark figure – at the _man_ – who stood several paces away from her.

Oh, gods. Gods, no, please. He was too damned close. She couldn’t breathe for a moment and stared at him, utterly terrified. If Sansa only could take a step back and further away from him, to put some distance between them… 

Seeing her agitation, the man raised his hands up, showing her his open palms. The collar of his jacket fell away and he shuddered violently in the cold wind that was howling around them.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to frighten you.” His voice was deep, slightly hoarse, and he continued to stand there with his hands in the air without moving. “Are you… Are you okay?”

Was she? Sansa couldn’t remember how it felt to be okay. She briefly wondered if she looked as scared as she felt - like a skittish animal frightened out of her mind by a man’s presence. Well, she didn’t want to advertise that, did she? Forcing her lungs to take a deep breath, she swallowed and nodded.

“Yeah, yeah… I’m fine. Thanks.”

Sansa hoped that her words would send him on his way but the man continued to stand there, looking miserable in the cold. She wondered if he could see her properly from where he was standing... if he could perhaps see all of her dying dreams trailing after her like a veil of mourning.

He moved. It was just a jerk of his body as if he wanted to take a step toward her but was not sure he should. He stopped and turned to the side and Sansa held her breath wanting him to just leave so she could get on with it. Then he shook his head and glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

“Is there anyone I could call?” he asked quietly. Sansa almost didn’t hear him over the wind, but his words reached her somehow. Touched her right in the middle of her frozen heart, and she found herself tearing up at the unexpected kindness of a complete stranger.

She had managed not to cry for two whole hours, damn it! Her aching body sunk down on the wooden planks of the pier as sobs shook her frame. Brittle and fragile, that’s what she was… No, _broken_. She was already broken and most of those pieces were missing, gone, and never to return. Just like Theon. He was also gone and she would never see him again.

Sansa was only partly aware that the man shuffled closer and awkwardly crouched next to her, raising his hand toward her. Sansa’s first instinct was to twitch away, which she did.

A sense of weightlessness enveloped her for a moment and she knew without a doubt that she was going to fall into the water. She had gotten over the edge. The decision was out of her hands now and Sansa felt free for that one blissful split of a moment. But he grabbed her roughly, causing her to scream. Anyone’s closeness was causing a blind panic to build up in her and she couldn’t help it, she fought those arms around her.

“Fuck!” he grunted as soon as Sansa’s flailing hands hit him. He wrapped his arms around her middle tightly nonetheless and hauled her closer, into his chest. It made it only worse and Sansa screamed again, new desperation giving her more strength. Ignoring her fists, he flipped down on his back and then let her go, growling, “Are you fucking crazy?!”

Sansa had scrambled to her feet immediately, kneeing him in the stomach in the process, and was now three or four steps away from him. Her hand was hurting and she felt… She wasn’t even sure how she felt. Trapped? Grateful that he had saved her from falling? Angry that he had? Or embarrassed by her panic? Her cheeks were burning and Sansa didn’t have the energy to deal with this, not now. She was raw, like an open, bleeding wound.

They were both breathing heavily and she watched him as he slowly turned to his stomach and then kneeled, looking up at her. She had hit his face by the look of it, and it would leave a bruise. His pale eyes were very bright and Sansa had the feeling that he knew perfectly well what she had wanted to do. The knowing look in them made her uncomfortable and she averted her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she said shakily. Her voice was hoarse and weak and empty. A perfect reflection of the rest of her.

“For trying to jump?” he asked sharply and heaved himself to his feet. He touched the side of his jaw and winced. “Or for hitting me?”

“Hitting you.” It slipped out before Sansa could censure her words. Her eyes widened and another hot flush covered her pale cheeks. She resolutely refused to even glance at the man.

“I can’t let you do that, Miss,” he sighed and tugged his jacket into place. Then he rolled his shoulders and grimaced, trying to catch her eye. “Miss? Did you hear me? I _won’t_ let you do that. Are we clear?”

Their eyes met and she realized that the knowing look in his gaze was replaced by pity. She had seen enough pity for several lifetimes. She was sick of it, hated it. What did it matter? What did it change? “Why the hell do you care? Just… Just walk away and leave me alone.”

The man snorted and shook his head. Soon, a humorless laugh bubbled out of him.

“I don’t think you should be alone right now, missy,” he said and went to stand quite close to her. Sansa couldn’t stop herself from flinching and wrapped her arms around her middle, taking a blind step backward. The man stopped abruptly, holding himself very still. His eyes continued to look at her, searching her face, and no doubt cataloging her body language.

“I’ll listen if you need to talk,” he offered finally after several long moments of tense silence. “It would do my aching joints a world of good if we moved this conversation somewhere warm and dry, though.”

From this close, Sansa could see him much better. He was in his mid-forties. His face was thin and sharp, cheeks covered with graying stubble. The same grey had crept into his thinning hair. There were dark circles under his slightly reddened eyes. He looked as tired as Sansa felt – he shouldn’t be dealing with her, he should be getting something to eat and then sleep.

He gave off the impression that he would stay out there with her, though. The realization that she was keeping him from getting the things which he obviously needed forced Sansa to nod mutely. She was cold, exhausted, and lonely – and she felt terrible for hitting the man who had just tried to be a decent human being. It wasn’t his fault that Sansa did not want to be saved.

“Great!” he said, interrupting her bleak thoughts. He yanked at the collar of his jacket again and jammed his hands into the pockets, giving her a strained smile as he started to walk. “Are you hungry? I could use a drink and there’s bound to be a bar somewhere around here, isn’t it?”

Walking next to him and keeping a careful distance between them, Sansa shrugged. She wasn’t hungry and she didn’t want a drink, but she knew that she should eat at least something or she could faint. And he was right. King’s Landing was full of bars, they would stumble upon one soon enough.

“So, what were you doing there in the middle of the night?” she asked as they left the pier and made their way out of the docks.

He glanced at her and shook his head. “I’d say it was a good thing that I happened to be around, don’t you think? What’s your name, young lady?”

The way he had said ‘young lady’ reminded Sansa of her own father and the gruff manner most Northmen spoke. Her companion with his stubble and hoarse voice could come from up there, too, and it made her relax marginally. It was like finding an unexpected piece of home and she almost smiled at the thought. How pathetic it was trying to see something familiar in a complete stranger? Just for a moment, he made her think about other things and for that alone, she was grateful.

“I’m Sansa,” she said and offered him her hand after a second of hesitation.

He stopped walking and looked down at it. Then he raised his eyes up and looked at her for what felt like an uncomfortably long moment. Very slowly, he freed his own right hand from his pocket and clasped Sansa’s smaller one firmly.

“Roose.” His touch was shockingly warm and she couldn’t help but stare down at his hand as he continued to hold hers. The warmth of his palm continued to seep into her chilled skin for several seconds and then he breathed out heavily, “Gods, you’re freezing, Sansa. How long were you standing there?”

She snatched her hand away and averted her face. “I… I really don’t feel like _talking,_ okay?”

“Sure, I won’t pressure you on that,” he agreed smoothly. “Tonight, at least.”

He waited until she glanced at him sharply and then smirked. His eyes were burning brightly. “I told you I wouldn’t let you do that, didn’t I? I meant it, Sansa. I won’t.”

“You know nothing about me, or why I…”

“I know enough.” Roose shrugged and continued walking without giving her a single glance. Huffing, Sansa moved to follow him. She hadn’t known him for more than 10 minutes and he was already infuriating her. He probably had no idea that his blasé behavior was that one thing Sansa could never stand.

“The hell you do.”

“You’ve been hurt,” he told her calmly as if they were discussing the weather. “You can’t deal with the aftermath. Sorry to point it out to you, missy, but you are not the first or the last to suffer like that. Jumping is not a solution, you know, even if you think there’s no other way. There is, you just don’t see it _yet_.”

“I’ve heard a million variations of similar bullshit already. And you know what? Go fuck yourself.” Sansa’s heart was beating wildly as she turned on her heel and started to walk in the opposite direction. There was a dull roaring sound in her ears and she struggled to breathe. He had no idea what he was talking about, how it felt.

He knew nothing. He had no idea what it was like to wake up in the hospital, mind blank and yet feeling _that_ ache deep inside, the horror, the disgust, the fear, the utter humiliating helplessness, the guilt of everything that followed that awaking… She had scrubbed herself raw so many times and yet it hadn’t stopped nausea every time she thought about what had been done to her…

She didn’t realize that she was shaking, or that tears were streaming down her face until Roose appeared in front of her.

His expression was shattered and some of Sansa’s own demons stared back at her from his eyes. She hadn’t believed that someone – anyone – could look exactly like she felt. It forced the remaining breath from her lungs and she felt her body crumbling, dark spots dancing in front of her eyes.

“Gods, girl,” he muttered as he broke her fall. “I can’t keep doing that, my back’s killing me.”

Yet he gently lowered them to the wet ground, right in the middle of the sidewalk, and wrapped his arms around her, letting her cling to him for dear life. It was the acute, painful, and piercing _understanding_ in his eyes – not pity – that had finally broke last of Sansa’s resolve. She cried until there was nothing left, until she was only a sea of pain and anguish, until her own name did not matter anymore and she didn’t remember that Theon’s death was her fault.

She had tried to be strong for them, for her family. She had tried so damn much not to worry them, to get over it… But the simple truth was, she couldn’t. They couldn’t understand what it did to a person, how she felt like a stranger in her own skin, when her body was suddenly someone else’s and there was blood on her hands.

“Oh, Sansa,” she heard him sigh just a second before her exhaustion finally caught up with her. The strangest thing was, Sansa wasn’t afraid of his closeness as the merciful darkness claimed her. For the first time since it had happened, she felt a marginal sense of warmth creep back into her.

** Pull **

Roose stared in the mirror for several seconds. For once, he didn’t have a splitting headache and the reflection did resemble the man he had used to be. A dark blue bloomed over the edge of his jaw and it made him smirk. His eyes had been growing darker every day, and he had felt himself slipping further and further away. Today, though, his eyes were marginally brighter and he felt grounded, at least a little. 

It was because of her, Roose knew. It had been the contact with her, finally, that had made him feel _something_. He grinned ruefully at himself and started brushing his teeth. Sansa was still asleep and he wanted her to rest as much as she could. The night hadn’t been easy. She had nightmares that kept him awake and somewhat sober enough to murmur soft reassurances to her.

It had actually worked; his whispered promises of safety and reassurances that it hadn’t been her fault had lulled the poor girl back to sleep every time, and the burning desire to guard her dreams had kept him from drinking too much. That had been a first in a long time.

He hadn’t been much of a drinker – before. Roose had always disliked what kind of person he became when he lost his inhibitions, but he couldn’t stand who he was when sober much more nowadays. He craved the numbness that came with one too many, couldn’t exist without it. It brought him a blessed silence and he didn’t have to think about anything anymore.

The girl’s pain made him focus on something else than the emptiness inside of him. It was like remembering what it was like to be alive, that there was something outside there.

Wandering back into the living room, Roose was surprised to see that the couch was empty. His heart stopped at the thought that Sansa had sneaked away. Glancing toward the front door, he spied her coat still hanging there. Then he heard a sound from the kitchen and his heart started to beat again and Roose sighed in relief.

Following the sound into the kitchen, he found her making breakfast. The sight of her bare feet seemed strangely intimate and Roose stared at her ankles for what seemed like a ridiculously long time before he shook the surprise off.

“Morning, Sansa.”

The young woman whirled around, startled, and then managed to smile a little. “Hi… I, uh, hope you don’t mind…”

In the bleak morning light, she looked a little pale and much too thin for someone her height, but her hair was strikingly red and her face was startlingly beautiful. It was a fragile kind of beauty – Roose had the feeling that a simple gust of wind could break the woman into pieces.

He was going to be gentle and careful. He would not let her throw her life away because of what his son had done to the girl. He would make sure that she was safe. That resolution had gotten him through the darkest hours of his life, and it now gave him enough strength to muster up an answering smile.

“What are we having?” he asked lightly and glanced down at her hands. His fridge was miserably stocked but by the look of it, Sansa was doing quite well.

“There wasn’t much,” she said with a sheepish grin, “but I’ll manage pancakes… You eat that, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” There was a second of awkward silence in which they stared at each other and Roose was actually glad he looked somewhat presentable this morning. “Do you need help?”

“No, no, that’s fine… How’s your back?” Sansa hurriedly turned back to the countertop and started mixing the flour, avoiding looking at him.

She had caught that? His back pain was a constant reminder that he wasn’t a young man anymore. Carrying an unconscious woman all the way to his car and to his flat hadn’t done him much good but the pain wasn’t worse than usual.

“Fine,” Roose said and shuffled into the kitchen, unsure what he would once inside but unwilling to let the girl out of his sight. The thought that she would, perhaps, fling herself out of the window frightened him.

“And… your jaw?” Sansa continued to prepare the batter, refusing to glance at him. Her cheeks held a slight tinge of red and he could imagine that she was appalled by the fact she had hit him. Sansa wasn’t the type of person who’d think violence of any kind was an acceptable response.

“I’ll survive,” he chuckled. He’d been in his fair share of violent situations, and one more bruise was nothing. Deciding to get something to drink, he cautiously approached. The kitchen wasn’t a large room – it was actually quite small – and he brushed against her as he tried to reach for a glass.

Sansa stiffened and held herself motionless 

“Sorry,” he whispered, stilling as well. His eyes took in the deepening blush on her face, and he noticed that she smelled like rain and falling leaves. It didn’t fit her, the scent was all wrong – she should smell sweet like summer and wildflowers. “I’ll just get some water. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said just as quietly, letting out a shuddering breath and turning her face toward him. Her eyes were a pretty blue color, but dull and frightened and the panicked expression in them made him uncomfortable. The feeling only grew as she forced herself to relax and an uneasy, fragile thing resembling the beginnings of trust appeared in her gaze instead.

It was like a punch to his gut. He was _lying_ to her and did not deserve even a sliver of her trust. But she couldn’t know, she could never know the reason why he had been at the docks the night before, what his true motivation for trying to help her was. He needed to help her, desperately.

Gods, he wanted a drink. Yet it was a glass of water that Roose got and then a cup of coffee. After they were properly fed and watered, they remained seated at the small kitchen table, unsure how to proceed.

He had no idea what to say or do now and Sansa wasn’t probably faring much better. Her inquisitive look was making him nervous – she was observing him with keen eyes and Roose was afraid of what she could see. He had been painfully aware of her gaze lingering on the dark circles under his eyes that had been the result of weeks of fitful sleep, and how haggard he looked. One was as bad as the other in that regard, both teetering on the brink of a total collapse.

“So, any plans for today?” he asked carefully, giving her a sidelong glance. Sansa was staring down at the cup in her hands, frowning slightly. Gathering his courage, Roose placed his hand on top of hers and watched her startle. “We could go mushroom hunting.”

“Mushroom hunting?” she repeated, bewildered. Something in the dead emptiness of her eyes sparkled and Sansa smiled briefly. “That’s a very northern thing to do, Roose.”

“Is it?” His lips twitched upward and something squeezed at his heart excruciatingly. That spark in her eyes could gut him. It was such a pity that her fire had been so brutally extinguished – he imagined that her eyes all bright and hopeful must have been quite a sight.

“You don’t sound like a Northerner,” she observed, looking up into his face fixedly, searching for answers he wasn’t able to give her.

Roose couldn’t imagine telling her the truth. That he knew exactly what had happened to her. That he was the father of the man who had hurt her so much, who had _destroyed_ them both. That the guilt had been eating away at him mercilessly. That he had been losing his mind, little by little, minute by minute. That he had been waiting to approach her for _days_ , not knowing what to say… how to apologize for allowing that to happen to her… Words couldn’t possibly be enough.

“Don’t I?” Now he did sound like someone from around Winterfell, her home town. Sansa’s answering grin continued to twist his insides painfully but Roose managed a small pleased smirk. He could see her as she had been before, for just a second, just a glimpse, and that person was precious. 

There weren’t many Northerners down in King’s Landing. The Riverlands, the Vale – that was usually as far south as they were willing to go. Roose knew that he was in KL reluctantly himself, and only for her. The capital had been her hiding place and he had had to follow.

“Okay, then. I haven’t picked mushrooms in years.” Sansa turned to look back down at her cup and that glimpse of a young, carefree woman was gone again. Nodding at her briefly, Roose sipped at his coffee, unreasonably pleased with himself. They were going to pick mushrooms today, and he’d think of something to do for tomorrow.

***

Roose quickly discovered that Sansa Stark was a slave to her own moral code and integrity. She texted her parents dutifully, though she never picked up when they called. If she promised to do something or be somewhere, she would always stick to her word. Armed with this knowledge, Roose had made a point of planning an activity for them every day. That first Saturday morning, they had been mushroom hunting and he had asked her to accompany him to the local zoo the next afternoon, and then invited Sansa to breakfast on the following Monday with plans of going for a swim together on Tuesday.

If food was involved, he always had an easier time of convincing her to meet with him. Roose suspected that Sansa had a little cunning plan of her own. While he tried to keep her busy and involved into day to day affairs – and by doing so, keeping himself afloat as well – Sansa seemed to seize the opportunity to see him fed properly and coincidentally, her own appetite had improved. His convenient excuse of being new to King’s Landing afforded them a lot of opportunities to explore the city’s culinary delights.

“What do you fancy tonight? Seafood?” he would ask with a small smirk. There was a fire in her still, and it appeared in the most unexpected moments – like discussing their dinner options.

“Only if you want me to spend an hour throwing up,” Sansa would answer blithely, giving him a look. Her stomach was easily upset and seafood was a big no-no. Roose would congratulate himself on that spark of amusement in her eyes and smile back smugly. With each of those exchanges, something inside of him would loosen slightly and he would breathe more freely.

The idea of Sansa finding another way to end her life scared him. At first, he had had to make sure to keep her thoughts away from that dark night and swirling waters. It had been the main reason for pushing his way into Sansa’s life so forcefully even though it felt like a violation of her privacy. Roose bloody well knew that the last thing the poor girl needed was someone else violating her, but what was one more sin to weight on his conscience? He was keeping secrets from her, anyway, and the delicate mental balance he had unexpectedly found in her presence was threatened every time he found himself alone.

As the days turned into weeks, though, it started to feel less like a conspiracy against Sansa and more like the most natural thing in the world. He no longer had to find excuses for dropping by her apartment – Roose would have to think long about any reasons why he _shouldn’t_. He had always been good at ignoring certain hard truths, putting on blinds when it suited him. This wasn’t an exception.

His job allowed him a lot of freedom and he was able to bring it with him to King’s Landing. Of course, being a private eye with a drinking problem was so hilariously cliché that he continued his job just for that alone. It wasn’t like he needed to work – that plot of land around Dreadfort which had belonged to his family for generations generated enough income, but it gave him something to do.

He needed to have an occupation, especially if he continued to drop hints about her school to Sansa. She had only one semester left, and Roose pestered her to return tirelessly.

There was also the little fact that he liked to swing by her place after he finished work, and take her out for dinner. It was almost like they were real people and did normal things for fun. They would eat and drink and then they would crash out on her sofa more often than not. In the morning, Sansa would feed him breakfast before kicking him out of her apartment. Roose usually stopped by his place only for a change of clothes and ended up back at Sansa’s later the very same day.

Recognizing the same pain in someone else, seeing the same jagged pieces and gaping holes in them, was akin to a gravitation pull. Roose was powerless and utterly unwilling to resist it for a much simpler reason: he liked Sansa’s company and that was it. He enjoyed their outings and their dinners and he let her feed him and monitor his alcohol intake to her heart’s content.

“Let’s head home, okay?” Her words would be soft, as would be her hesitant touch on his forearm, stopping Roose from taking another sip. She would look him in the eye, not quite begging, but close. She always knew when he needed to stop.

“Sure,” he would say and head over to the bar to pay, sneaking in a shot or two.

She was quite bossy in that regard – determined to look after him the same way he was looking after her – but Sansa was also uselessly lightweight when it came to holding her own alcohol. There were nights when neither of them remembered how they had ended up in a pile of limbs on her sofa.

“I don’t feel like going out tonight.” she would often say. She usually didn’t, jumping at shadows and sudden movements and loud noises… and men. She didn’t feel good in the presence of men. Most times, Roose would gently coax her into going out of her apartment at least for a little while, maybe for a stroll after dinner.

Sansa was an excellent cook – if he was honest, staying in was even better than going out. He would get in her way in the kitchen and then they would argue about what they were going to watch.

“Gods, no! I can’t stand Cersei Lannister’s fake blond wig!” Sansa disliked the historical series about Targaryens mainly because her uncle’s wife starred in it. “If you want to watch _that_ , I’m going to bed.”

“Fine, no Fire and Blood tonight…” Roose would concede – he was watching it only for the battle sequences, anyway. “But I’m not watching even one minute of Florent’s tripe!”

He couldn’t stand that particular romantic series featuring tall, dark, and broody. His words and indignant expression would usually elicit something resembling a snort, followed by a quickly smothered giggle. “Right, I wouldn’t dream of putting you through that.… But I’m warning you, I’ll doze off if you put on another wildlife documentary…”

However, the best part about nights in was the fact that they would eventually end up in that pile of limbs on her sofa anyway, the initial distance Sansa put between them completely obliterated at the end of the evening. Yet he was willing to concede that getting the woman drunk was far more fun because Sansa was a happy drunk. Roose often wondered if that was who she had used to be before; always smiling, affectionate, and unburden, unaware of the cruelty of the world around them. Nothing like the weary, wary woman she was most of the time. Her laughter even managed to transform him into the sort of drunk he could tolerate - like he was a better version of himself around her sober or not.

Making sure that she wasn’t crumbling kept Roose from the same fate. Watching as the desolation in her eyes receded little by little and tiny embers returned to their depths – just waiting to be fanned back into brightness and warmth – had become everything to Roose. Sansa was his focal point and being needed again was an addictive, heady feeling. It made him less of a failure. Helping her made him feel like a real person again, not like a caricature of a man.

It was all a pretense, nothing but a pretty lie, though, and the ugly truth came out from time to time. They weren’t fine, and they both knew it. Not every day could be good. Sansa had nightmares and flashbacks and panic attacks. He did his best to guard her sleep, but there were evenings when he simply continued to drink long after she had gone to bed, needing to silence his own demons - and didn’t wake to soothe Sansa’s.

They talked after those incidents sometimes. She would tell him about Theon, her friend who had come to her rescue and paid for that with his life… about the Starks worried sick up in the North… about being frail and so easy to bruise these days.

“I hate it,” she sighed once. “Being this weak, watered-down version of myself, I mean.”

“Yeah, I know.” And he did, perfectly. He would sometimes tell her about his sons, but only a little, and that they had been shot and Roose hadn’t been able to do a thing about it. He would not say that one had shot the other and then run and ruined her before being put down like the dangerous animal that he had been. Roose still had their pictures in his wallet, even Ramsay’s, but he hardly ever looked at them. Knowing he carried them close was enough, seeing their faces was something he couldn’t bear to do.

“I keep asking myself if there was a way I could have stopped it,” he confessed once, having had maybe a little bit too much to drink, feeling like he couldn’t keep it in any longer. “It’s all my fault, you know. _Everything’s_ my fault. I should have noticed that there’s something wrong. What kind of father fucks up that much?”

“It’s-” she choked as she tried to answer him. “It was _not_ your fault, Roose.”

Wasn’t it? If only she knew.

During those talks, they would usually sit together in the dark, lost in their thoughts, but not alone, grounded by the other’s warm, solid presence. She would dare to reach out for him first and Roose’s eyes would sting, and he would listen to her saying that it was okay to cry. He never cried but Sansa would still shuffle closer and Roose would wrap his arms around her so very carefully, letting her know that she could pull away any time. They would cling to each other.

“Is it ever going to be alright again?” she would ask him in a voice so small he could barely hear it. He hoped so, for her at least. He wasn’t so sure about himself.

Roose wanted Sansa to get help, to go to a professional again and _try_ this time… but he was afraid to bring it up. He wasn’t a hypocrite; Sansa would surely want him to do the same and he wasn’t ready. It was a complication he had not foreseen. When he had set out to King’s Landing to find Ramsay’s victim, he had not expected to like the way her eyes looked at him, or the way she smelled, or how she still could smile softly when they had their good days and how he couldn’t peel himself away when they had their bad days. He had just wanted to make sure the poor girl would be fine and safe, and then be on his way. This… This hadn’t been his intention at all.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. He often lost sight of what his true purpose in Sansa’s life had been. The tender, delicate feelings Roose felt whenever he was around her could never be allowed to surface. It was a dangerous dependency – it couldn’t possibly be _love_ , could it?

The first time Sansa hadn’t flinch or stiffen when she had found herself standing too close to him, Roose had been giddy. When she had relaxed, folded into his chest the moment they had sat down on her sofa, Roose had known that he was fucked up. It had been three months since that cold night in the docks and he couldn’t imagine not being around Sansa Stark, and knowing at the same time that he could not actually _continue_ being around her.

The second she would realize who he was, what he hadn’t done, hadn’t _stopped_ from happening, that there was a terrible connection between them, she would be devastated. He rather hoped that she would slap him and scream at him and be strong, no longer needing his pathetic presence in her life as much as he seemed to need hers.

Then, just two days after that painful realization had hit home, Sansa miraculously agreed to write to the counselor’s office of her university. Her eyes were no longer empty – there wasn’t much of fire in them yet, but they were somewhat bright and beautiful. She could get her degree come spring and Roose knew right there and then that she was going to be fine and not needing him anymore.

It was time to get away on business, to put some distance between them. It felt like he was the one jumping into a stormy sea to drown.

** Spark **

The dawn was breaking, the morning cold and bleak. Roose’s windows were dark and Sansa had no idea if he was home or not. Still, she banged and banged at his door with the same stubborn determination he had shown as he had been battering at her defenses three months ago. She had not wanted him to poke his nose into her business but Roose hadn’t budged – so neither would she.

It had taken her only a little while to understand what had been going on inside of his mind. He was as bad as her at masking the cracks running through his soul, at pretending to be okay. Roose Bolton needed to feel like he could save someone and Sansa’s bloody bleeding heart couldn’t stand the thought of denying him that.

He hadn’t been able to help either one of his sons and it had destroyed him. Yet he decided to go and try to help _her_. That strangely selfish and yet selfless idea had made her ashamed in those first weeks as he had tirelessly pestered her to live, to not bloody hell give up.

The fact that the man was pleasant to be around – if he wasn’t completely infuriating with his teasing of seafood and stupid historical series – was an added bonus. He could sit with her in silence and just be there, solid and warm and grounding and Sansa had needed that. Not her family’s empty reassurances, not a great pile of shrink talk – just someone present who had understood. Roose had made her slowly focus on something else but the gloom of her own mind. Whatever his motivation had been at first, a tentative something had bloomed between them.

Roose had not given up on her, and Sansa wasn’t about to give up on him, now. Not when she knew that being around her helped him as much as it helped her. It wasn’t necessarily healthy, being this dependant on someone else, someone so broken… But Sansa realized that their shared suffering had been the one and only thing that made their bond this strong, the only thing that had made it even possible. 

When she looked at him, at those pale eyes full of darkness and misery, she saw herself. He knew what she felt like, how much it hurt, and he had come to her to offer what had been left of his soul. It was mutual, didn’t he understand? He had made her care about him. She worried if he ate enough or if he drank too much. Gods knew he should be taking better care of himself and if he wasn’t willing to do that, she would have to do it for him. A relationship was about both giving and taking, about support and forgiveness. _Love_.

Sansa wasn’t an idiot. She knew what had happened to him, to his family… who he was. She had known from the first time he had talked about his boys. They had been both handsome men.

To think that Roose was the private detective and yet it was Sansa who had been snooping around… She almost snorted at how ridiculously easy had it been to google the Bolton tragedy in Dreadfort. It had made the local news and described in cold, detached words the details of the shooting at their family home. A man had killed his stepbrother, after years of frayed relations and conflicts. The same man then had avoided capture for weeks, finally being shot down in Winterfell. She had resolutely not read the articles about that, which described in that same detached informational way details of the murder and rape preceding Ramsay Snow’s death. She was rather glad that she still had only a vague recollection of that night and wasn’t ready to read about it.

“Come on!” she cried out in frustration. “Open the fucking door! I know you’re there!”

Gods help him if he was passed out on that shabby couch. It was really bad for his back. She had slept on that thing and knew very well how uncomfortable it was. Giving the door one final angry bang, Sansa placed a shaking hand in front of her mouth. Her emotions had been running rampant for the better part of the last three months and she was sick of always being on the verge of tears.

The idiot behind the door helped her keep it together. Every fleeting touch, every not so subtle glance. It wasn’t supposed to happen, she knew. She wasn’t supposed to be able to relax into him so naturally, it wasn’t supposed to be nice to feel his arms around her. Sansa couldn’t imagine letting anyone else touch her and still jumped when other people got too close. But not him. Roose was warmness and safety and comfort. He was the one who camped out on her sofa despite bad back every night, who came shuffling into her bedroom to wake her up from her nightmares, his deep smooth voice soothing her troubled mind.

Sansa couldn’t sleep without him near. The last week had been hell. She missed him more than she thought could ever be possible, though a part of Roose would always be with her, hiding inside of her heart, the echoes of his voice lingering at the edges of her mind, the memory of his warmth buried deep in her soul.

“Roose, please…” She rested her forehead against the door, one of her hands going down to her stomach. She had thought it had been stress when she had been late. She had thought it had been the seafood when she had spent hours on end throwing up. She had thought that she had been so damned tired because of the nightmares and oversensitive because of what had happened to her.

Never had it occurred to Sansa that she could be pregnant.

A baby. It was staggering. Sansa had always planned children in her future. As a girl, she had seen so clearly how her family would look like; a young, handsome husband, a beautiful baby girl with his blue eyes and her reddish locks, a small house with a white picket fence located by the sea someplace warm, a dog barking in the garden. That life was full of light, love, blooming flowers, and blue skies… It was a vision of pure _happiness_.

She had certainly never thought it would be like this; a bleak city in winter, overcast skies, cold long nights, and a sea of pain… but she could never hate the baby, that was a given. 

Happiness had seemed so far out her reach only just a little while ago. Now, though… Sansa wasn’t unhappy, she had realized with a start as soon as her doctor had confirmed the news. There was a new life growing inside of her, a defenseless little thing that would soon need love and protection. The realization that not all of her dreams had been stolen made her discover a hidden cache of vigor – life and love – deep inside of her. Sansa found it rather ironic that the one who had robbed her of so much had inadvertently left her with something precious.

Sansa could do nothing but fall in love with the baby, anything else had been unthinkable. The circumstances of their conception were hardly the child’s fault and in half a year, an innocent human being would be born. Maybe it would be a little girl with her reddish locks and Roose’s pale silvery eyes and Sansa would make sure there would never be any darkness in them. The child would know only safety and love, grow up surrounded by family.

She had written to the counselor’s office of her university and would get her degree come spring. She had phoned her parents and told them… well, _almost_ everything. About her need to deal with everything on her own terms, about an important someone, about the great, world-shattering news. The Starks were so incredibly relieved at finally knowing she was safe that they were not even angry at Sansa’s lack of meaningful communication.

There was finally a thud somewhere in the apartment and Sansa banged loudly one more time, calling out, “Roose? Please, open the door! Please!”

She listened carefully to someone’s shuffling and then the door opened. Sansa stifled a gasp at the sight of his drawn face. He squinted, obviously troubled by the assault of light. His eyes were reddened and darker than she had ever seen them before. He had not bothered with shaving – or eating by the look of it – and judging by the smell he had spent the last seven days at the bottom of the bottle.

She had never thought she would love someone like him, but gods, she believed she did and the sight of him in such a state broke her heart. The thought of him suffering alone before he had crashed into her life made Sansa tear up. They needed each other, desperately. Who else would save them but themselves?

“Sansa,” he slurred, his expression carefully guarded. It was rather impressive given the fact that he was hardly able to stand without swaying. He closed his eyes as if in pain and kept them closed as he whispered, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“This is the only place I really need to be. We have to talk.” She watched as he swayed slightly and then steadied himself against the doorframe.

“This is a bad time,” he concentrated on his words carefully and then opened one eye, flinching against the pale morning light. The desperation in his gaze was making it hard to breathe for her, and she barely heard his next words. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have drunk so much, then,” she growled and pushed past him into the apartment, wrapping her arms around her middle. He had been sleeping on the couch, that was obvious, the curtains were drawn, the room smelled like a distillery. Crossing to the window, Sansa opened it, letting in some much needed fresh air and light. Several empty bottles littered the coffee table. “Gods, this place’s a mess.”

“Yeah.” Roose closed the door and carefully weaved his way to the couch, collapsing down and wincing in pain. Sansa sighed and followed him, choosing to sit close and not allow any distance between them. He was a mess as well but she still reached out and took his hand, cradling it to her chest, to her heart.

She couldn’t recall the precise moment it had happened. There were no hows or whys, not really, there had been just the tiniest spark in the dark coldness of her heart, a single burst of warmth… perhaps at their very first touch, or perhaps at the second, or third… It hardly mattered. That spark grew, becoming larger and brighter and stronger… and now it was ready to explode in the dark, lighting the whole of her world.

“What-” he cleared his throat. A light tremor ran through him. Then he asked a little helplessly, “What do you want to talk about?”

“Why have you been avoiding me?” Sansa’s voice rang clearly through the dimness of his apartment. He had been her rock when she had needed one. He had helped her back to her feet and bullied her into living. Had he kept enough strength for himself? Sansa would be his strength now. She would not let him pull away and spiral into misery, drown in scotch.

Roose glanced at her from the corner of his eye and then retracted his hand. It clenched into a fist as he took a deep breath, bracing himself. She watched as his face suddenly smoothed out into a blank, empty thing and he turned to face her fully. Her heart started to thud painfully in her chest – a part of her knew that he was going to confess and she did not relish the idea of revisiting their shared suffering.

“I lied to you for all this time, Sansa,” he said, voice devoid of emotion. His eyes were dark and empty and there wasn’t even a single trace of the intensity that she had usually found directed only at her. Now it felt as if there were a thousand miles between them, as if he was out of her reach, drowning right in front of her very eyes.

“I-” His voice cracked. His mask cracked. The darkness spilled out of his eyes and choked him. Roose shook his head, grimacing, and covered his face with his shaking hand. “He was… the one who…”

Without waiting one more second, unwilling to prolong what was agony for both of them, Sansa surged forward. Colliding into him, she pressed her forehead against his, one of her hand cradling Roose’s cheek and the other fisting the material of his shirt, her arm firmly around his back.

“I know,” she whispered softly, tears making her voice rougher than usual. “I know everything, I’ve known for weeks. You keep a picture of your boys in your wallet… if you didn’t want me to find out, you shouldn’t have given me the wallet so many times, you idiot.”

Another choked sound clawed its way out of his throat and Roose wrapped his arms around her, crushing Sansa to him with an uncomfortably tight hold. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“It was not your fault!” Sansa closed her eyes, returning the desperate embrace with equal strength. “I’ll keep telling you that until you believe me. It was not your damned fault. Not what he did to Theon, not what he did to me. You taught me to let go of that guilt. Now, it’s your turn. Please, love, please. Let it go…”

It was that one word – _love_ – that did it. He let go and Sansa held him, giving back all of the strength and tenderness and warmth he had given her. One shuddering breath later, Roose choked out heaving his sobs, crying for his boys and her – and even himself – until all of that pain and guilt and sorrow was finally washed out, leaving him cleansed and empty as he sagged against her… But only for a moment. Then Sansa’s lips brushed against his and she breathed a new life in him, sharing with him that explosion of feeling – her fire – flooding their world with light.

** Life **

There was a tickle under his nose – just a gentle touch of something soft – but Roose kept his eyes closed, pretending to be still asleep. Sunlight was warm against his skin, tall trees continued to whisper in a mild breeze, and the murmur of ocean blending with their voices tried to lull him to sleep once again.

“Rogar, let your father be,” softly admonished a beloved voice.

“But he’s not asleep,” answered a child’s voice just as softly.

His boy was as soft-spoken as him and it was almost hard to believe that they were Northmen. He had the Stark coloring; grey eyes and dark hair, but he’d have the compact and powerful Bolton build once grown up, that was certain. He also had his mother’s smile and the same fire in his gaze. Rogar was absolutely nothing like Ramsay, whose name was never spoken, never remembered, but whose picture still stayed carefully folded in Roose’s wallet.

“Do you think so?” Sansa asked and there was it again, something soft brushing against his skin. Then, a smell of wildflowers enveloped him and he couldn’t help and smile as Sansa’s lips touched his fleetingly. “Hmm, I can’t say.”

“Dad,” Rogar poked him into the ribs. “Will you go into the water with me, please? Mum says I can’t go alone… Dad, come on, we know you’re awake!”

“Am I?” Roose finally rumbled, blinking his eyes open and grinning up at his wife. “What do you think, fair lady? Am I awake?”

“Does it feel like you’re dreaming?” Sansa asked, the sparks in her eyes twinkling down at him happily as another kiss landed on his lips. Oh, it all still felt like a dream, Roose admitted to himself quite often. He would wonder sometimes if he was going to wake up cold and alone and miserable, curled up around a bottle on that uncomfortable couch in King’s Landing.

This life felt too good to be true, to be real, but his wife loved to remind him that he hadn’t had a drink in years. He believed her, especially as he continued to watch Sansa’s body change again with Rogar’s little sister.

“Are you going to kiss some more?” asked their boy with a slight trace of disgust. “If so, I’m going swimming on my own…”

“You’re not,” warned him Roose and sat up, looking at Rogar sternly. “I don’t want to see you near water without me around, are we clear?”

“But I can swim!” pouted the boy. “I won’t drown!”

“I know you can swim but I’ll go with you just in case, okay?” Roose then turned to look at his wife who watched their exchange fondly. She glowed, radiating so much happiness it was impossible to tear his eyes away at moments like these. Of course, Sansa had been excited and beautiful and glowing when they had expected Rogar as well, but that period of their lives had been still difficult with his rehab, her studies, the move to White Harbor…

“Will you be alright?” he asked, wrapping his arms around her loosely, nuzzling the side of Sansa’s neck. Roose worried, naturally. After finding such a precious gift, he was quite sure he wouldn’t survive another loss. As Sansa liked to say, though, he had to have faith, and Roose believed that he could do that and tried not to hover overprotectively… too obviously.

“Of course.” Sansa touched his cheek, gave him a small smile, and then nodded her head, patting the blanket. “I’ll wait for you right here. Go on, honey.”

Rogar didn’t need more encouragement and raced toward the water, laughing loudly as he the waves splashed him.

“He gets that from your side of the family.” Roose heaved himself to his feet, bending down to kiss her forehead and placing his hand on her baby bump. “Be good.”

“Aren’t we always?” Sansa smiled broadly. “Now, do try to tire him out, will you? I haven’t had you for myself for quite a time, love.”

“I’ll see what can be done about that.” Roose laughed, pressing another kiss to her cheek, trailing his hands down her arm. He felt Sansa’s eyes never straying from him and Rogar as they waded into the water, and often turned to catch her gaze, smiling back at her and trying to decide if they were comfortable or if the sun wasn’t too much. Then Rogar splashed him with water, demanding his father’s attention for himself, and Roose focused on their boy, some of Sansa’s glow firmly enclosed within his own heart.

It hadn’t been all smooth sailing and there still were somewhat bad days, but they were both too stubborn to give up on the other one. They’d continue to stumble and fall and get up again, and the memories of cold days and dark nights would continue to fade, replaced by memories of teething, tummy aches, and temper tantrums. They would share their dreams, their nightmares, their sorrows, and joys, wrapped in their everyday life and more importantly, enveloped in the warmth of their love as long as there would be a spark of life left in them.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I managed to borrow my brother-in-law’s laptop for the weekend. I finished the next chapter for Jaime/Sansa and then, during a long sleepless night produced this *sniffs pathetically* I know that Roose/Sansa is quite a rare pairing and together with the focus of this story won’t attract a lot of attention… So, if you got as far as to this note, I feel like I should apologize for the contents of this fic and thank you for getting here *offers paper tissues*
> 
> This story was with me since the moment I finished ‘Silent Night.’ I’ve got to confess it took me the last two days to decide if I wanted to post it or not. That’s what happens when poor mad mages are left sitting up alone during thunderstorms thinking about what a horrible place Westeros actually is, you know? *sighs* Anyway, thank you for reading and I’d be happy to hear what you think.  
> Stay safe, stay strong, and I’ll see you around *winks*  
> Love, Mage :)


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